


lux mundi, dolorem mundi

by filthycasualsmark (exalteranima)



Category: World Wrestling Entertainment
Genre: Light Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-28
Updated: 2018-04-28
Packaged: 2019-04-28 23:50:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14460507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/exalteranima/pseuds/filthycasualsmark
Summary: Your mind turns off in the heat of a ladder match. All that matters is the prize hanging above you, and the instinctual drive to win.Set during the Greatest Royal Rumble.





	lux mundi, dolorem mundi

**Author's Note:**

> My writing muscles are really rusty lately. Sorry for the nothing ficlet, need to stretch my muscles _somehow._

It must've been mere hours ago that they were standing side by side, smiling for the Saudi press, rolling their eyes at another round of gratuitous selfies once they were out of view of the cameras. 

It felt much longer. Like an entire eternity had passed, transforming them both beyond recognition. 

They knew the rules, the _laws._ They couldn't so much as kiss here, not on the cheek or hand or mouth, not for luck or celebration or good night. That would have to wait until they were back in America, safe in the privacy of their latest shared hotel bed for the week. 

But tonight, they weren't in the mood for cuddles or sweet nothings. Tonight they were rivals, with an angry Samoan and a delusional actor and a metric fuckton of ladders between them. 

And that belt. That prize of gold and white leather, suspended twenty feet above their heads while a stadium of people erupted all around them. 

 

* * *

 

The match passes in a blur, as it often does whenever they disappear into that drunken haze of adrenaline, that gush of pure joy and invincibility and recklessness only wrestlers will ever know. 

He remembers bouncing off the ropes, flying into the air until he feels the cool steel beneath his palms and boots. 

He pays no heed to the roar of noise, the multitude of flashbulbs blinking all around him like falling stars. 

He doesn't register the title's snaps coming loose, his fingers prying and pulling the title free. 

He never notices the fleeting scent of sweat and iron, the slight resistance of metal slashing skin. 

When the dust settles, and he hears the announcer calling his name and his theme music booming across the stadium, Seth barely remembers holding the title in his hands. 

But he _does_ remember the shock of crimson around Finn's right eye, cruder and more violent than mere body paint. 

He remembers that look of pain and anguish and resignation and defeat, and so many other unpleasant emotions marring Finn's face, how it all looked wrong on him. Seth understood why Finn felt those things, but his stupid selfish heart could not unsee _wrong wrong wrong wrong._

And as the referees gingerly ushered Joe and Miz to the back in his peripheral vision, all Seth could think in his numb post-victory state was

 

_Please, Finn._

_Baby, please be happy for me._

_I need your smile._


End file.
